


One Kiss

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dorwinion Wine, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6153895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Subtitle:  "Sweet 1600+ and Never Been Kissed."  More first-kiss fluff.  The guys are so desperate for me to let them kiss already in the long story that they just won't leave me alone!  X-D  Here is a part-humorous, part-silly, part-angsty first-time ficlet set (as so many of these drunken encounters are) in Minas Tirith some time after the crowning of the king.  Apparently the Gondorians are all drunken sots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Kiss

It started innocently enough one evening as the three hunters—now the King of Gondor and his two most trusted advisors, the Lords of Ithilien and Aglarond—sat together in the private dining hall, drinking companionably with a number of royal courtiers and friends. Frodo and Sam had departed early, and Merry and Pippin also slipped away together not long since. The evening waned, but Gimli was content to sit with his companions, sharing comfortable tales and good company. However, the blasted elf was pensive, and when he spoke, he shattered the dwarf’s pleasant, drunken haze of comfort.

“What is it like to be kissed?” Legolas asked Aragorn as he gazed aside. They had all drunk a goodly amount, some of them entirely too much. Though Gimli was strong and steady after several mugs of stout ale, the man and the elf were drinking strong Dorwinion wine, and several empty bottles stood upon the table. For once the elf was not cool and sober. Legolas’s fair face was flushed, his legs unsteady when he attempted to rise, and so he had not tried for some time, though he had kept drinking. 

The question seemed light and innocent enough, but Gimli could see the elf was sorrowful, his brows drawn together in the faintest of frowns. He directed his gaze toward Faramir and Éowyn, who stood upon the balcony nearby, sharing a moment of tender embrace. Faramir pressed his lips to her forehead, and she laid her cheek against his shoulder for a moment. Then they parted and moved on to take their leave, smiling gently, their hands clasped.

Aragorn turned his head to stare at the elf, his eyes wide, a little glassy. “Why do you ask?”

“I have often seen it done, but I have never kissed another or been kissed, and I am curious.” Legolas shrugged. “You are wed, so I know you have much knowledge, and I thought it good to seek your counsel. It occurs within many families, I know—fathers and and mothers may kiss their _hîn_ for fondness. I know that those who are _meleth_ gladly kiss one another, and I see that it is on rare occasions done as a kindness between dear and trusted friends.”

“You have never been kissed, not even by your father or your mother?” Gimli blinked at Legolas in staggered disbelief.

“My _emel_ passed across the sea when I was very young, and I do not remember her,” Legolas explained, his voice sad. “My _adar_ is not given to displays of affection. We merely bow or touch our hearts upon greeting and parting. I have none who would name me _meleth_.” He lifted his glass of wine to his lips with both hands and drank, seeming self-possessed and calm for all the unsteadiness in his hands. “I have not ventured to try kissing a friend, not knowing when or whether it might be appropriate or welcomed.”

“What it is like…” Aragorn opened his hands, at a loss. “Truly I cannot say. It depends upon who kisses you. It can be done in warmth and kindness, fondness, or even sorrow, or it can herald heat and desire. If you wonder how it would feel just to know the press of lips, you may put your mouth against your own hand and learn well enough. But if you would feel the lift of the heart, it must be done with another—one for whom your heart feels deeply. More than that I cannot explain.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully. “Your words seem likely enough.” He lifted his fingers and patted them experimentally against his passive mouth, then frowned. “Though it does not seem so pleasant when done this way as I have seen others find it, I confess.”

“You’re not doing it properly,” Gimli scowled into his ale. “You would not let your lips stay still and cold. It would feel like kissing a fish!” He took a deep swallow of the beer, and scrubbed his mouth dry. “You should move your lips forward warmly, to greet the other. If you watch it done, then you will see.”

“I have seen kisses that seem as unpleasant as you say. I have even seen kisses where tongues pass between mouths.” Legolas wrinkled his nose with distaste and cast a forlorn gaze toward Aragorn. “If you will pardon me, my friend, it seems quite distasteful.”

“You mean you have seen me kiss Arwen in that way.” Aragorn chuckled. “I can assure you, it is not unpleasant, nor does she find it so. But yes, such a kiss would be shared only between lovers. Unlike this one.” 

Aragorn set his empty glass aside and reached to clasp Legolas’s face between his hands, leaning forward with careful grace. “Here is a kiss such as may be granted by by a king, a liege lord, or a lady, bestowed upon a friend or a favored retainer,” he said simply, and set his lips briefly against Legolas’s forehead: gentle and reverent, kind but chaste. “Now you have been kissed, my friend.”

“Thus I saw the lady Galadriel kiss the ringbearer,” Legolas agreed, but Gimli thought he was pleased; his eyes sparkled and a sweet smile graced his delicate mouth. Gimli stirred in his chair, stifling a growl in his throat, annoyed with himself that he had not moved first. He scowled, jealous to see the elf so pleased with a meaningless kiss—given as a lesson, asked-for, rather than offered freely or out of true emotion.

But the king was not finished. “And thus may anyone greet or part from a cherished companion who does not mind it,” Aragorn continued, and set his lips against the elf’s cheeks, once on the left and once on the right—a rather less formal gesture, but it involved the press of their cheeks together, and only the corners of his mouth grazed Legolas’s smooth skin. 

“If you would feel the kiss of a lover, you must ask someone who has plighted no troth to another,” Aragorn smiled at the elf kindly. “And then many other…. questions… may arise. I cannot help you further, _mellon nîn_.” He rose, weaving unsteadily on his feet, and bowed to them, very nearly falling on his face. “I must go while I am still able to walk, lest my wife be wroth with me,” he said, and departed from them, leaving Legolas to look thoughtfully after him. 

Gimli scowled bitterly at his ale and shoved it aside, reaching for the wine-bottle and taking a hearty swig. He gasped and spluttered as it burned its way down his throat.

“You call this wine? It is as strong as a thrice-distilled spirit, elf. No wonder you are maudlin in your cups.” Gimli took another hearty swallow. He was not even half drunk enough for this sort of talk.

Legolas watched him drink, his eyes steady, pupils wide and dark. “Aragorn has helped me. Now it is your turn. I have no other I might ask to kiss me as a lover would,” he remarked when Gimli set the bottle down.

Gimli uttered a mighty oath, knuckles going white around the neck of the innocent bottle. “Truly it is written: a liquorous mouth makes a lecherous tail!” He took another swig, emptying the bottle, and put it down, trying and failing to stand it upright. “Not here,” he finally said, his voice weak. “Not now.” He could not deny the elf, Mahal help him. “Another time.” 

Legolas nodded absently, his fingertips resting against his cheek where Aragorn’s lips had touched. “Then I think I will retire,” he said with great dignity, and attempted to stand and walk, making it all of a half-step before collapsing onto the bench once more.

Gimli sighed, greatly put-upon, and stood himself—though his head was swimming from the potent wine. “Let me help you, elf, lest you stray into some lusty courtier’s bedroom that is not your own and learn rather more of kissing than you bargained for!” 

The elf was far too tall to be supported easily by one of Gimli’s height, but they made do, wandering down the wide hall with Gimli on one side of Legolas and a stout wall on the other. For once Legolas did not sing, feeling his lips with questing fingers, neglecting to keep his eyes on the floor in front of him and therefore failing entirely to find it accurately with the sole of his foot, more often than not. 

Gimli despaired of getting the elf to his own room, which was on the very outer edge of the palace, where the elf enjoyed a wide balcony under the stars. But his own room was very near, and he had a man-sized bed where he might put the elf to rest, and a couch upon which he could rest while Legolas recovered. He stopped before his door, fumbling with the latch.

“Will we part here?” Legolas asked, his eyes wide and dreamy as he gazed down upon Gimli, then sagged at the knees. Gimli barely managed to get him onto a seat positioned near the door. He put both hands upon the elf’s shoulders, pushing him back against the wall, but Legolas seemed determined to slump forward—and the reason became clear when he laid his cheek against Gimli’s. Gimli felt the elf’s silky lips brush against his face in a kiss of parting. 

“Was that cold and wet, like a fish?” His breath was warm against Gimli’s skin, and somehow his fingers had tangled themselves in Gimli’s beard. 

“No. Let me go, elf.” Gimli pulled away, gruff, and managed to open the door. He maneuvered Legolas inside, sitting him down upon the mattress and wondering if he should try to remove his friend’s boots.

“This is not my room. Have you brought me here to teach me more of kissing than I bargained for?” Legolas’s voice was thick with drink, but there was something in it—soft and vulnerable, sweet as the smile he had bestowed upon Aragorn. “Show me how it is, my friend.”

Heat rose through Gimli in a haze. “Only one kiss. Then you must sleep,” he cautioned. Oh, but he should not have had the wine. It had wakened madness in him; all his veins ran with fire. “I have not drunk enough for this,” he groaned to himself—not enough that the memory would be lost upon waking.

“Alas that you wish it not!” Legolas said. “ _Aníra-bronadui nín!”_ He caught the braids of Gimli’s beard in his hands as if they were Arod’s reins. Gimli thought him very near to drunken sleep; his eyes were glazed and he did not seem to see. Perhaps the elf would not remember.

“None of your gabble,” Gimli said, making the effort to seem cross. “Here, then.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against the elf’s, quick and soft. The wine was still spinning in his head, and he nearly overbalanced, nearly fell.

“I wasn’t ready, and you were too quick.” Legolas complained. “I did not feel that.” His hands burrowed deeper into the locks of Gimli’s beard, the intimate caress making Gimli’s head reel. “That was not a lover’s kiss. Give me another.” He tugged, insistent. “Do it properly.”

“Greedy elf,” Gimli all but moaned. “It is not my fault you did not attend.” Legolas was beautiful, his hair mussed and his face soft, unguarded. The low and wavering light of the lamp gilded his face darkly, gleaming in the clear pools of his eyes. “One more, then you must lie down.”

Legolas nodded with simple faith, and he lifted his chin, closing his eyes to wait. 

Gimli hesitated, then leaned in: another tender brush, lingering ever so slightly, lips parted to let the elf feel a whisper of heat and softness before he pulled away. 

Legolas moaned and sank backward, but he did not release his grip, so Gimli tumbled with him, firmly ensnared.

“My beard, elf,” he said, desperate. His cock lay trapped between them, hard and aching against Legolas’s hip. The elf lay pliant beneath him, warm and lithe, a living temptation to sin. “Take your hands from my beard.”

Legolas did as he bade, but his arms wound around Gimli instead, and he gazed up at him with lips parted, half his face in shadow. “A lover’s kiss. You promised!”

“What is in that wine of yours? You are going to hate yourself in the morning,” Gimli whispered, all but lost. “And me as well.”

“Never, _meleth nín_.” Legolas lifted, pushing up against him. 

“Yes, you are,” Gimli groaned. “For those very words, if nothing else. Elf….”

“More tongue. Less talk,” Legolas murmured, releasing him at last. He stretched and laid his arms beside his head, palms open, as if daring Gimli to rise and knowing he would not. 

“One. Kiss.” Gimli growled between gritted teeth. “Because you demand it. No more, you drunken souse. For I will not risk our friendship further on a drink-addled whim, not even if you try to tempt me with all the pleasures of your body!”

“I will do that when I am sober, then.” Legolas smiled at him, clumsy and sweet.

“No.” Gimli’s heart ached. “I know you will not.” He leaned in to silence the elf, sealing their mouths together. Lips touched, parted, and clung, and Gimli swept his tongue between them to meet Legolas’s, tasting more of the heady wine, drinking deep as the elf sighed with bliss and let him inside.

Surely it did not count as more than one, not if they never fully parted between each deep and clinging press of lip and slide of tongue. --Or even if they did, for Gimli could not make himself draw back until he had tasted every sweet and melting inch of the elf’s eager mouth, nuzzling and biting at the narrow lips, devouring gasps and moans and soft, pleading cries. 

He forced himself away at last, shaken and trembling, his cock white iron inside his breeches. “Now you know what it is like.” His voice was so hoarse he could scarcely understand himself. “And if you have mercy in you, you will forgive us both when you wake.”

Legolas let him go, hands sliding regretfully from Gimli’s beard, but they moved only to curl around his back, and they did not release him. 

“Stay,” Legolas breathed. “You need do no more for me, but stay….” His eyes closed and he rested, content.

Gimli laid his forehead against the elf’s strong chest in defeat, but he did not leave, for Legolas would not have it so. After a time he slept, lying there upon the sweetest bed he had ever known, until the sun rose high over Mindolluin and all the city was awake save him.

Finally his body wakened him with a pressing need to seek the chamber pot. Gimli stirred and gazed into Legolas’s face. The elf lay lost in reverie, his cheeks their normal pale rose once more, his arms laid over Gimli’s shoulders.

Gimli tried to arise softly, without wakening him. Turning away, he eased himself quietly and tiptoed away to set the pot out in the hall for the maids, but all his stealth was no use. When he glanced back toward the bed once more, the elf was alert, looking at him with a bright, clear gaze that remembered all they had said and done, yet showed no fear. 

Gimli's heart rose into his throat, pounding hard.

“I am curious. What is it like to take a lover?” Legolas asked softly, his eyes dancing. 

Gimli laughed for joy and showed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Elvish shamelessly borrowed from Pippychick. You should read her stories. Ohhhhh yes. Go NOW!
> 
> No, wait. Leave me a comment or some kudos first. Then go. ♥
> 
>  _hîn_ : children  
>  _meleth_ : beloved  
>  _emel_ : mother  
>  _adar_ : father  
>  _mellon nîn_ : my friend  
>  _aníra-bronadui nín_ : my enduring desire
> 
>  
> 
> I also sneaked in a quotation from Geoffrey Chaucer. Mad props to anyone who can spot it!


End file.
